


You're losing your memory

by towardsmorning



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Gen, Post-Finale, reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Prompt: Amon visits Tarrlok in his cell and breaks down.)</i>
</p><p>It's been a long, long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're losing your memory

**Author's Note:**

> So I may have written this at 3am while kind of tipsy.
> 
> I mean. _Maybe._

He paints the scar onto his face beforehand, every line of it familiar. If Tarrlok- if his _brother_ \- has recognised him, then he may insist the mask comes off. So Amon paints the scar on with the ease of long practice and then ties the mask into place over it. It's been so long that at this stage, it may as well be his real face, a real scar. Sometimes he almost forgets it isn't. If nothing else that makes delivering his story easier. (There's no almost about having forgotten his name once or twice, though. It's been a long, long time.)

When he strides into the interrogation room with its single occupant, every inch a confident performer, he wonders what Tarrlok sees. Does he see Amon, or does he see-

"Noatak," Tarrlok says, answering the question neatly. His hair is hanging around his face, and the shadows on his face are deep, the lines deeper. There's a bruise smudged purple under one eye, and he looks older than Amon had expected, slumped against the wall on the far side. More than that, he sounds older, which shouldn't come as a shock. It's not as though he hadn't heard Tarrlok speak as a grown man before now, but he sounds different than before, tired and resigned. The way his name sounds in that voice draws Amon up sharp, seeming to echo in his head.

 _It's been a long, long time._ He squares his shoulders.

"Tarrlok," he says, and then finds he has nothing else to say. The silence grows heavier every second it continues for, and he strives to fill it by reaching behind to unclasp the mask. Tarrlok's eyes narrow in response, but he doesn't say anything as Amon lifts it away, not even when he sees the scar.

Amon wants to _make_ him say something. He wants to put a thumb on the middle of his forehead all over again, wants to hit him, wants to ask why he hadn't come all those years ago. It's been a long time since he heard his name, and almost as long since he's felt anything like this. He's been putting on a show since he first stepped onto Republic City's soil, and he thinks that perhaps he's forgotten how to do anything else.

He could gloat, he could threaten, he could do anything. _You **are** a weakling_ comes to his mind without his permission. The memory hangs somewhere between sweet and vile, and something in him seems to undergo an internal shift at the thought. His knees hit the ground before he's even aware of it and then Tarrlok is in his arms, which feels wrong in and of itself. Tarrlok was always so much smaller than him, the younger brother and a little scrawny on top of that. Somebody to pick up and brush off and set back on his feet. Now they're the same height. Amon- Noatak- Amon- he recognises that this might have something to do with pressing his face between neck and shoulder, hiding it. 

Tarrlok is still and silent beneath him, tensed but not pushing away. Whether that's because Tarrlok is terrified, apathetic or simply shocked, he can't tell.

A part of Noatak registers that he is shuddering, and that his jaw is locked against sobs. The tears are coming anyway. He doesn't know what they're for. They feel angry, and the desire to hit Tarrlok surfaces again. Instead he grasps tighter and wonders if there will be finger-shaped bruises later.

Eventually Tarrlok's arms settle somewhere comfortable and they half sit, half lie there together.

Noatak doesn't move. He puts off having to, and wonders what he'll do when the time comes. In fact, he dreads it; every drop of blood in Tarrlok's body is calling out to him. So he stays and shudders, for the time being, and memorises the sound his name made.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Losing Your Memory by Ryan Star, technically.
> 
> For the record if you'd told me I would be having any emotions at all about Tarrlok and Amon before the finale I would have laughed very hard, but THERE YOU GO.


End file.
